


Overwhelmed by Every Little Thing, Torn Apart, Unravelled at the Seams

by ItsChaz



Series: Haze [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Choking, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Full Body Bondage, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I think that's it - Freeform, Japanese Rope Bondage, Light Consensual Fat Shaming, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shibari, Stone Steve, Stone Top, Sub Bucky Barnes, Subspace, Top Steve Rogers, Verbal Humiliation, mentions of mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsChaz/pseuds/ItsChaz
Summary: The problem with Steve in this sort of situation is that he’s observant but he’s also kind of dumb.(All fics in the 'Haze' series can be read in any order, or as a stand-alone).





	Overwhelmed by Every Little Thing, Torn Apart, Unravelled at the Seams

**Author's Note:**

> Please just take this so I don’t have to look at it ever again. 
> 
> Takes place somewhere before both of the other two fics in this series, where Steve and Bucky are fairly new to re-exploring their old relationship and haven’t quite ‘got back into the swing of things’.
> 
> Unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own.  
> Title from the song “Haze” by Tessa Violet.

> **Overwhelmed by Every Little Thing, Torn Apart, Unravelled at the Seams**

The second Bucky had been deemed well enough to re-enter society once again, Steve had taken it upon himself to assign the first Saturday of every month to be  _date night_ ; going as far as to inform each and every higher up he could find — neither of them is available for missions on that day. Bucky doesn’t know what Steve had said to them, but it must have been pretty intense for them to relent and agree.  

They have dates at other times, too, of course, but Saturdays are the most important ones for Steve. They are the ones that he says are for spoiling Bucky — expensive gifts and restaurants that you have to book months in advance for even the smallest chance of getting a table.

Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about these Saturday date nights. They’re too much for him sometimes: thousands of dollars being dropped on him in dumb accessories and high tech gadgets that Steve doesn’t really understand but knows that Bucky appreciates pulling them apart, messing around with all the circuits and wiring and putting them back together.

Suits too claustrophobic and presents too high-cost, every time Saturday morning rolls around, Bucky is tenser than usual. Stuck between the pressure to please Steve by taking what he’s been given and his habit of being too trapped in his own head, he finds it too hard to accept these things but can’t bear the thought of hurting Steve by saying  _no_.

And the problem with Steve in this sort of situation is that he’s  _observant_  but he’s also  _kind of dumb_. He can see that Bucky is uncomfortable about something but doesn’t know what — and he’s learnt that asking Bucky what the problem is won’t get him a straight answer — “ _m _y defences are too strong__ ,” Bucky had said once, jokingly, but it was no joke.

It’s very rare you find Bucky in a mood — a particular one, rarely found and often hard to distinguish from so many other of his particular moods — where he’s open enough to talk about stuff without flaking or withdrawing. The only time Steve’s guaranteed a proper answer to  _Feeling Questions_ is when Bucky’s subspace and not all important emotional conversations can be had when Bucky’s practically gone.

Although, in the end the discomfort — of accepting diamond encrusted pet food bowls the price of a new car or the tension of having to sit in a too-fancy restaurant, downing over-priced glasses of wine as if it’ll do anything to him — is worth it when Steve kisses him on the forehead and tells him a “ _good boy_ ” at the end of the night.

So, this Saturday morning, the second he rolls himself out bed — his tangled mess of pillows and blankets a stark contrast to Steve’s military tucked sheets — the gross feeling in his belly starts up; a sickly nauseating thing that makes Bucky wonder if this is what pregnancy and morning sickness feels like — a thought that, unknown reasons, he stores away for later.

By the time he’s migrated into the main living area, most of his excess tiredness is gone, leaving behind the vague disassociated feeling that may or may not be a side effect of the cocktail of medication he’s on. Stuck on the fridge door with a Falcon magnet — that Sam brought as a joke, but jokes on him because Bucky uses it anyway —, Steve left a note saying:  _getting date night organised_.

Despite the disgusting feeling in his stomach, he eats a bowl of Raisin Bran, following each spoonful with a swallow of milk — “ _the mouthfeel of soggy cereal makes me vomit_ ”. After he washes everything he used, he plops down on the couch, huddled in the corner, firing a message off to Steve:  _ETA?_  followed by a little car emoji.

Barely a second after thumbing his phone locked, it buzzes, alerting him to Steve’s reply:  _Around 3-ish_ and a little string of colourful hearts. Checking the time, just a little after one, he just sends a thumbs up emoji in reply before turning his phone off completely. Regardless of whatever safety precautions that were put in place when he was issued the phone, Bucky still worries about it being hacked or tracked, preferring to keep it turned off when he can.

Swarmed in probably too many fluffy blankets for such a hot summer day — no matter what, he always feels  _too cold_  — he pulls a ratty bundle of paper from between the couch cushions, held together with brass fasteners, titled  _Mon-Key Electronic Keyer manual 1957_ , and picks up where he left off.

Maybe it’s a little stupid for him to hide it, but he didn’t want Steve to know. He would end up like that one guy from  _Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse_ but instead of cardboard cut-outs of himself, it would be telegraphers. That’s another stupid thing that he doesn’t want Steve to know about him (even if it shows up whenever Netflix is opened up).

He likes that though — having secrets. Sometimes he feels bad about it, keeping secrets from Steve after everything they’ve been through together; but it gives him things — things that are  _his_ and it’s been so long since he’s had his own things. No one can stop him from enjoying painting his toenails or reading stupid vintage manuals or watching  _Barbie_ movies.

 _No one can take these things from him_.

Hearing the light jiggle of keys at the front door, Bucky finds himself jolting awake. At some point he must’ve dozed off — curled around the arm of the couch, blankets slipping off his shoulders and his manual in a mess on the floor. “I’m home,” Steve calls.

Head barely lifting off the arm, Bucky stares up at the door, watching Steve with half-lidded eyes; keys and spare change thrown into the Crap Bowl besides the door, shoes kicked off at the door, nondescript plastic bag — the nice kind, not the grocery store kind — thrown on the kitchen island, chugging some orange juice straight from the bottle — Bucky scrunches his nose up. “You are,” Bucky replies, “so am I”.

Smiling fondly, Steve pads over with socked feet to Bucky, kneeling down beside him, one hand brushing through Bucky’s sleep-tangled locks, the other reaching down to grab the manual. Flipping the pages over to read the title, “you want one?” he asks, almost automatically, like buying Bucky his useless stuff is a necessity.

“No, I…” Bucky hesitates, “it’s useless”. Establishing himself in a legitimate place of permanence is still a foreign idea to him — something that he still can’t obtain. He already tried, in the dingy little apartment Steve had eventually found him in. Buying just  _stuff_ to fill a  _space to live_ sounds nice, but not possible.

 _You can’t settle down here_ , echoes his mind,  _you’ll have to leave soon_.

Hand leaving his hair, Steve runs it down the side of Bucky’s face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “It can be a decoration,” he says, no room for protest, “we can display in a glass case or something. We can check that little antique shop you like”. Bucky grabs both of Steve’s wrists — who drops the manual in a crumpled pile again — and pulls them to cover his face, causing Steve to chuckle. “Too much?”

Bucky nods, “too much,” he says, muffled by Steve’s hands.

“Wanna get down?”

Wordlessly, Bucky slides off the couch, taking his blankets with him. Steve replaces himself on the couch, Bucky quickly wrapping himself around Steve’s legs like an octopus, pressing his face into Steve’s knees. Turning the TV on to some cooking competition, Steve’s hand finds its way back into Bucky’s hair, lightly trying to comb the knots out of it.

They settle into a comfortable silence — Steve petting Bucky like a dog, who bites on the fleshy pad of his thumb, occasionally sneaking it into his mouth to give a little suck (another one of his secrets he doesn’t want Steve to know). “What does pregnancy feel like?” Bucky asks suddenly.

Gripping a section of hair, Steve picks Bucky’s head up barely an inch from his lap before getting it go, Bucky’s head making a light drop onto Steve’s knee. It barely feels like anything and now Bucky wants to know what it would feel like if Steve punted him in the head. “Why do you want to know?” Steve asks, fingers once again carding through hair.

“No reason,” Bucky mumbles into the fabric of Steve’s jeans, “it’s stupid”.

“Nothing you think is ever stupid,” Steve says, his Dom voice slightly seeping into his words, “got it?”

“Got it,” Bucky agrees, almost emotional, “it’s not a fucked up sex thing, by the way”.

Bucky can’t see it, but he can hear the smile in Steve’s voice, “none of the sex things you like are fucked up, Buck. I introduced you to the fucked up sex things. Remember when you were that sweet little vanilla boy?”

Oh — he doesn’t, he shakes his head  _no_.

Chuckling, Steve stalls his patting for a moment before starting again, “there was this girl — Eleanor, I think she said her name was — see took you out back when we went somewhere once. Somewhere disgusting, don’t think it had a proper name or anything. You came home later, cryin’,” Steve laughs a little, “she told you to that she wanted you to pull her hair and you just… couldn’t. But look now,” Steve tugs harshly at Bucky’s hair, causing a small whimper, “you love it” Steve finishes, breathlessly, like he’s witnessing something just  _too good to be true_.

“You fucked me up,” Bucky says, pleased.

“I did,” Steve agrees, “and I’m not done yet”.

It’s not something that Bucky thinks about often, but at certain times — when he’s in a space where his brain has too much time to think — he does wonder how far Steve is going to push him, how intense he’ll get, just how  _fucked up_ could he be. But, more importantly, he wonders how far  _he_ would be pushed before he finally pushes back. Last time he thought about it he decided:  _there is no limit_. He’d do any fucked up sex thing as long as Steve asks him to. And — something that he hates  _so much_ — if he was asked to, he would kill for Steve, full Winter Solider, like a rabid wolf that Steve finally let the leash lose of.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He looks at the plastic bag still on the counter  — date night, “what’re we doing?” he asks, muffled by his thumbnail, anxious. A bad thing to ask — distracting himself from one subject of bad to another. Clint once called him a  _masochist_ , and he’s not wrong, Bucky guesses (but maybe not in the way that Clint meant it).

“Not much,” Steve replies, a simple conversational tone that sounds like it might have a hidden meaning behind it, “just staying in tonight”. They haven’t  _stayed in_ before on a Saturday night date.

“Oh,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know if it’s an  _oh_ of relief or disappointment. He’s thankful that they won’t be doing something big or going somewhere fancy, but he can’t help but feel upset because he knows that Steve likes taking him out — showing him off.

“And, hey, actually — could I look at you?”

Bucky thinks for a moment, then replies, “as long as I don’t have to look at you”.

“What? Don’t you want to look at my ugly mug?”

“What? No! You’re not… I didn’t mean—”

Steve laughs, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder to guide him so he’s back is braced against Steve’s legs, his head bends backwards over Steve’s knees — slightly uncomfortable, “I didn’t mean it”.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, momentarily fascinated by the little patterns behind his lids, “I like your face. I think it’s perfect”. Steve pokes Bucky on the nose, laughing, mostly to himself, as Bucky scrunching his nose. Cute — like a rabbit.

“I like your face, too. I  _know_ it’s perfect,” Steve says, leaving no room for argument, “but as I was trying to say before you interrupted me—”

“You’re the one that’s talking about your face,” Bucky huffs.

“There you are, interrupting me again,” Steve laughs, a fist making the lightest contact with Bucky’s cheek, “but as I was saying: we’re staying in tonight. I’ve noticed that you’ve been acting a little…  _cagey_ ,  lately. Thought a night in would be good”. He sounds cheerful — never a good sign at times like this.

Bucky clears his throat of nothing, eyes tightening, “could you punch me again? Real this time”.

Steve does — a heavier hit this time, leaving a slight stinging feeling behind, but quickly fades. Steve smooths a hand over the spot, “want to take this to the bedroom?” Bucky nods his head, enthusiastically. In his wild excitement and violent nodding, he ends up hitting the back of his head against the hard cap of Steve’s knee. The sudden, thumping pain at the base of his skull, knocks a moan from him. “I guess that’s a yes,” Steve laughs, kicking Bucky the best he can in the flank, “get going then”.

Bucky scrambles to his feet, tripping over fallen blankets, almost forgetting that he can open his eyes now. He tries his best to glare back at Steve, who’s snort-laughing, although he knows he looks more like a sewer-saved cat  —  all matted and annoyed. He rushes to the bedroom, throwing the door open, cringing when the knob collides with the door, no doubt damaging it.

“What was that?”  Steve calls, faking ignorance as he strolls down the hall, swinging the plastic bag loosely from a finger. He looks casually, but Bucky can notice the look in his eyes —  a predator; or almost like a psychopath, out to toy with his victim. Bucky shudders at the thought  — storing away the idea for another time, maybe;  he doesn’t know how into that Steve would be ( _anything for you_ , he can imagine Steve saying in his head).

“Nothing,” Bucky replies, a second later than he thinks might have been worth a reply,  “nothing,” he says again.

“Alrighty then,” Steve agrees, throwing the bag on the foot of the bed. He busies himself, set about whatever it is he’s planning —  throwing the pillows from the bed to the floor, straightening Bucky’s side of the bed, tucking everything to match his military-style side. Bucky watches him, eyes curious, intense. “Well? Are you gonna do something?”

Bucky’s eyes automatically snap themselves to the ground, watching his bare toes dig into plush rug underneath his feet — it was one of his first purchases when he moved in with Steve. All soft faux fur and prettily printed, it’s such crazy sensory sensation and he’s in love with it. On more than one occasion, Steve walked into the bedroom to find Bucky: naked and rolling around on the rug like a cat. A blush rises to his cheeks, “you didn’t tell me what to do”.

He looks up a little, nervous eyes peering up through the hair that curtains his face to see Steve smiling — it’s a little kind, a little something else. A sort of sweetness, which, for whatever, reason Bucky can only describe as  _if you found razor blades in a strawberry shortcake_  — “gotta do all the thinking for you some days, don’t I?”

 _There’s the sweetness, now where’s the razor blades_?

“Yes… sir,”  Bucky says, while he doesn’t know if it was a rhetorical question or not — something he knows that Steve loves to tease him with:  _are you really too stupid to know what a rhetorical question is or something_?  — it feels incredible —  _euphoric_  — to be able to call Steve that for the first time today.

“Okay, then. Clothes off, lie on the bed, your back,” Steve says, moving to sit crossed-leg at the end of the bed, next to the bag, “chop chop”.

“Chopping,” Bucky says, throwing the one blanket that managed to come with him in the corner of the room, followed up his shirt and sweats. Lying on the bed naked, he feels scrutinised under Steve’s forceful gaze.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Steve says, nodding towards Bucky’s tangled mess of clothes on the floor.

“Oh god, ‘m sorry, sir,” Bucky says, quickly trying to scramble off the bed to go fold everything, but he’s stopped by a firm grasp to his ankle. Turning around to see Steve, staring him down.

“No, you made your choice. You’ll do something about that, later”. Nodding, upset with himself for disappointing Steve, Bucky settles back down on the bed again. Picking up the bag, Steve’s shakes it — it makes some sort of sound, but nothing that Bucky can quite identity as something in particular. “Wanna know what’s in here?” he asks, grinning, almost predatory.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky answers, arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach at Steve’s grin.

Reaching into the bag, Steve pulls out a series of things — a couple of coils of red-coloured rope, a set of nipple clamps and little belt-looking thing. Nipple clamps they’ve used before, although these are more the tweezer style as opposed to the clover clamp they currently own. The rope, that Bucky can’t keep his eyes off of, is completely new. Cock twitching, he furrows his brows, almost wanting to reach out and kiss Steve — a big  _yes good_ for the rope. He doesn’t though; he keeps his hands by his sides, fingers clenching the sheets desperately. He waits: patient and good. Although he does speak, mouth not being as obedient as his body, “is that a belt for ants?”

Steve holds the little belt up, the undone buckle clinking and it reminds Bucky of those ASMR videos his watches when things feel weird and Steve isn’t here for him. “No,” Steve says, “it’s a belt for your neck”.

Stupid, maybe — but _bratty_? Definitely —, Bucky says, “but my neck doesn’t wear pants”.

Steve flicks Bucky’s nose, like a disobedient dog, “you don’t need pants to wear a belt,” he scoffs, “what about that wrestling bullshit that you and Clint like? They fight for belts and  _they_ don’t wear pants. Also, neither do ants”.

“Those are called  _titles_ ,” Bucky says, sticking his tongue out —  _brat_. Steve, ever the cat-like reflexes, reaches out and grabs Bucky’s tongue, pinching it between his forefinger and thumb.

Grinning fondly, he says, “ _Titles smitles_ ,” digging jaggered nails into the tip of Bucky’s tongue, “Speaking of titles though — I feel like you’re forgetting one”.

Bucky blinks, once then twice, before he remembers, “sorry, sir” he says, words muffled.

“Good boy,” Steve says, wiping the slightly spit-covered tips of his finger across Bucky’s face. Bucky smiles, trying to chase down Steve’s fingers; almost desperate to have them holding him, gagging him again. Dropping the  _choking_ belt, Steve then picks up one of the bundles of rope, the cherry-red rope almost winking at him —  _teasing him_.

Bucky writhes, letting out a soft mewling sound that he would definitely deny if Steve would bring up later, “please, sir” he begs.

“You don’t even really know what you’re begging for,” Steve says, offhandedly, starting to unwrap the ropes.

“I know that I’m begging for you to tie me up,  _sir_ ,” Bucky says, an added emphasis on the word  _sir_.

“Quiet brat,” Steve scolds.

Automatically, like whenever Steve tells him off, Bucky apologies, “sorry, sir”.

Eyes narrowing, a self-righteous smirk on his face, Steve stops unravelling a second lot of rope. Shuffling around awkwardly, he asks, “you know what I literally  _just_ told you to do?” Realising his mistake, Bucky nods his head — he’s being quiet now. “No,” Steve says sternly, “you wanted to  _disobey_ me and speak? Go on then: speak”.

Shaking his head violently, the knots that Steve had worked out earlier not doubt reforming “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘ _m_ ’ _sorrysorrysorr_ —”. Bucky’s rambling apology is cut off when Steve shoves something in his mouth. It takes him a moment, but as soon as his taste buds fully understand what’s on his tongue, he doesn’t know if he should be disgusted or painfully turned on.

Steve had shoved one of his socks in his mouth, tasting of mostly sweat — because of course Steve still insists on wearing  _boots_ during summer. The heat in his stomach as his dick jerks seems to of made up his mind for him — he likes this, a lot. He sends Steve a thumbs up.

Shaking his head, Steve smiles fondly down at Bucky. Ropes untwisted, Steve says, “I’m gonna start now. Lay back, straight like a log. I’m going to jerk you about a bit”. If Bucky was allowed to speak he would say something like  _nothing I do is straight though_ and would revel in the slap to the face he would receive because  _all your jokes are shit_ ,  _Buck_.

Starting from his shoulders, Steve starts to wrap one of the ropes around Bucky’s body. He doesn’t quite know if it’s a relaxing process or not — the amount of contact Steve is having with his body is causing him to drift off somewhere all fuzzy and hazy. It’s nice. But, at the same time, the lack of  _sexual_  contact is causing his erection to wane slightly.

He could totally imagine them doing this again — Steve tying him up, and not even for sex, just in general. It would be nice — Steve sitting beside him, sipping something, beer probably, as he reads something or draws and Bucky, beside him all tied up and gagged.

 _A nice night in_.

As Steve begins around his midsection he starts squirming whenever Steve’s fingers brush up against a particularly ticklish spot. Steve doesn’t acknowledge him, he doesn’t think: maybe the fingers do touch heavier on certain spots, but Bucky’s too faded to really know.

There’s lights whenever he closes his eyes and clouds floating above his head always. A calm sort of serene that he’s rarely known before. It’s like he can feel more, every single thread touching his body, every ghost of Steve’s fingers against the top of the thighs, the bite of the rope in his skin,  _everything_. He feels all that — deep down and almost overbearing —  but he can’t feel the bigger stuff like Steve’s pushing and pull of his limbs as he maneuvers him to best position the ties or whatever it is that Steve says whenever he mouth seems to move.

By the Steve’s done — with a little kiss to the top of both feet — Bucky can feel his back solid against the bed but he might as well be eight light-years away on some unknown planet. Sitting with his back against the bedhead, Steve starts running his fingers through Bucky’s hair —  _when did he become that sweaty_? Slowly Bucky comes down, close enough to Earth, to understand what Steve is saying “there we are, c’mon, come back here”.

Eventually, everything comes back to him — proper thoughts and feelings and just  _stuff_. The lights are still but the clouds only now appear when he’s closing his eyes. He tries against the bounds — lightly enough, like a normal human strength attempt. He starts to giggle to himself around the sock. Steve, ever the curious cat, pulls the sock from his mouth. “What’s so funny?” he asks, mostly fond but with an edge of demand.

Bucky licks his lips, trying to wet them up again after going so long without speaking. Once he thinks he can speak again he says, “I’m like a worm”.

Eyebrows raised in a way that seems to say  _he’s an idiot_ , Steve muses, “dirty and disgusting? Yeah, that sounds about right”.

Bucky struggles again — the movements looking like a worm trying to bury itself in the dirt — “no, I…” he says with a pout, “I  _wiggle_ ”.

“A worm?” Steve says, entertaining the idea, “like a bait worm. Throw you in the ocean let you wiggle down there, huh? You’re a pretty big worm, so you’d probably attract some big fish. Maybe even a shark”. At the end, Steve bites at the air, almost vicious,  _like a shark_.

Wiggling, in arousal and anticipation, Bucky lets out a loud moan, “please eat me like a shark, sir”.

Poking at some of the chub that bulges out between the ropes, Steve snorts, “you know I don’t like too much fat in my diet”.

“Just cut the bad stuff off,” Bucky argues.

“I’m a  _shark_ ,” Steve argues, “I don’t know what’s the bad stuff and the good stuff”. When Bucky was about the argue back, Steve stops him, pinching the flesh of Bucky’s arm, “ _Anyway_ , I had plans for us tonight. Discussing the eating methods of sharks wasn’t one of them. Why don’t we get back on track?”

Quitened by the scolding, Bucky agrees, “yes sir”.

“Good boy,” he says, knee-walking down the bed — something, at any other time, Bucky would have found hilarious. He grabs the clamps from where they sat and knee-walks back, closer to Bucky’s chest. “Open,” he says, putting the chain between Bucky’s teeth. It tastes a little like metal and he’s not too sure if he should have been expecting that or not.

Tweaking both nipples between thumb and forefinger, teasing them both into painful hard nubs that leaves Bucky sobbing, dick dripping a line of wet. Twisting them roughly, Steve stares down in joy, watching as Bucky squirms around, not sure if he’s trying to shift into or away from the abuse.

With one last twist-and-pull, Steve cuts off Bucky’s scream by slamming his palms down onto Bucky’s chest, knocking everything but a pained gasp from him. Eyes crinkling fondly, Steve reaches out, plucking the clamps from Bucky’s slacken mouth, “thanks for holding these for me,” he says, kind and casual — like when Bucky holds his takeaway coffee because he had to re-tie his laces (“ _just double knot them Steve_ ”).

Bucky just nods — mindlessly and almost unaware, a deep ache feeling crawling down inside from his chest. It feels like swallowing a hot drink and he relaxes into it: some peace.

Gently does it, Steve takes his time clipping the tweezer-style clamps to Bucky’s nipples, drawing light moans from Bucky as he pricks and prods, fussing unnecessarily with the clamps. “Trying to get them perfect,” Steve says after Bucky whines — long and frustrated.

It doesn’t kill his feeling of lightheaded floating, though.

Eventually — barely a minute later, honestly — Steve stops with the teasing, withdrawing his hands completely. Annoyed, Bucky whines at the loss of contact. Laughing, Steve says, “I touch you and you complain, but when I stop, you still complain. How the hell can I please you?”

“ _Touch me_ , but not like that,” Bucky pouts, “don’t be  _mean_ ”.

Tucking a finger underneath some of the rope wrapped around Bucky’s upper arm, Steve tugs at it, pulling it tauter, “but I thought you like it when I mean to you. S’not the point?”

“Sorry sir,” Bucky says, watching the way his skin moves under the stress of the new tightness of the rope, bulging around the outside. He stares down at his arm, lost in the splotchy pattern of red-and-white skin as Steve lets go of the rope, letting it go, slinking back into place.

“You like that, huh?” Steve asks. Bucky nods, eyes still trained on the line of skin, now back to its usual colour. “I do too. You wanna know something? Whenever I hit you, this happens. It’s so hot, Buck, you have no idea”.

Looking in Steve’s eyes, wide and earnest, Bucky pleads, “hit me?”

Smirking lightly, Steve raises a hand, bringing it down with a sharp  _crack_ as his open hand collides with Bucky’s cheek. Head thrown to the side, Bucky yelps out. His hands quiver at his sides, his body’s natural instincts telling him to reach up and grab the spot. His bound hands don’t move and he thinks there’s tears in his eyes. He smiles slightly, a little shaky. “Yeah, look at that,” Steve says, lightly and almost in awe, “beautiful”. His forefinger brushes against his cheek in a shape that takes a second for Bucky to understand: a handprint. Up and down, around each valley between the print’s fingers, Steve presses sometimes, sending a sharp pain through Bucky’s body, making him suck in sharp breaths.

Steve does a quick _tap_ - _tap_ to the spot with his open hand before backing off again. Reaching down the bed, leaning at the waist, Steve picks up the choking belt. And — _oh_ , is Bucky excited about this. He loves it when Steve wraps those big hands of his around his neck, threatening to squeeze the life out of him. To combine the strength of Steve with the biting cut of leather into his neck — _oh yes_ , he is excited.

Without warning or hesitation, Steve grabs a huge chunk of Bucky’s hair, lifting his head off the bed. Not the usual yank-and-burn of Steve’s usual tugs, but more of a deep, dull aching sensation. Not quite a headachy feeling. It’s a solid feeling; calming and stationary. Sliding one end of the belt underneath Bucky’s head, Steve lets go of the hair, letting Bucky’s hair fall, thumping against the mattress. “Now, this hasn’t been measured, so let’s hope that this can actually do up around your stupidly thick neck,” Steve says.

Unlike a regular belt, there’s no prongs or holes, just a frame and a strip of leather that can be tightened to choking point. Shoving one end of the belt through the frame, Steve pulls it through almost violently. Once tugged through completely, there’s a long tail of belt left which Steve wraps around his fist once, giving a quick experimental tug. Quick and sharp, like an extension of Steve’s own hand, the belt tightens.

Almost immediately, Bucky can tell the difference between Steve’s normal choking and this — the sharp biting of leather, strong grip around his neck, the real _choking feel_ coming on so much quicker than it usually does with Steve’s hand. Too soon, Steve relaxes the pull, letting it death-like vice around Bucky’s neck to lessen. “Guess you liked that, huh?” Steve teases, nodding down at Bucky’s erection.

Opening his eyes — when did he even close them? — Bucky looks down. Sure enough, twitching against his stomach, leaking a puddle of pre-cum, was his dick. Oddly enough, between the incredible floating feeling of being tied up and the haze-inducing choking, Bucky had completely forgotten about his own dick. “I forgot about it,” Bucky admits, sheepishly, not looking at Steve.

Free hand travelling up and gripping a handful of hair, Steve pulls Bucky’s head to look at him, “don’t worry,” Steve says, like he’s trying to calm a child about to throw a temper tantrum, “that’s why I’m here — to make sure you don’t forget”. A second of silence passes with either of them saying something, before Steve shakes Bucky’s head by the hair, “what do you say?”

Tears welling and threatening to spill from shaking, “I’m sorry sir,” Bucky says, “thank you for helping me, sir”.

Letting of Bucky’s hair, Steve pats at the part he had just abused as if to make up for it. A couple of tears roll down Bucky’s cheek. Picking up the drops onto his finger, Steve rubs the tears against Bucky’s lips, pushing the finger in when Bucky opens his mouth. “You wanna know how I’m gonna help?” he asks. Finger still in his mouth, Bucky nods. “We’re gonna try something we haven’t done in a while. Edging”.

Whenever Steve says _something we haven’t done in a while_ , it can range from a few weeks ago to literally before the war. To be honest, after being alive for so much, Steve’s perception of time is a little thrown off and, to combine it with Bucky’s own off sense, they’re both horrible with keeping up with times and date of the more simpler things. When they last did edging is one of those things. Bucky does, however, remember vividly enough to know that it was done this year sometime.

He remembers that he liked it. He nods, enthusiastically.

Steve drops his end of the belt, “good,” he says softly, reaching over to grab a bottle of lube from the bedside table — Bucky doesn’t remember that being there earlier? — and uncapping it. Squirting some out on a hand, he rubs them together, getting them covered. “Although,” he continues., rubbing one of his lubed hands through Bucky’s hair, ridding it of the slick, “I didn’t ask”.

Dry hand pucks up the metal chain of the clamps, tugging. Bucky grits his teeth and bites down on the tip of his tongue a little — thankful, there’s no blood. “Open wide,” Steve says, shoving the chain inside Bucky’s mouth, snuggly behind his teeth. Bucky knows what’s going to happen with this — he’s not sure if it’s because of experience or common sense, but he knows and he whines, not hating it but not entirely pleased either. Although, he is curious about how the choking belt might play into this.

“Ready or not,” Steve says, obviously not expecting any sort of reply. Talking would be near impossible with the chain in his mouth and any head movement to nod or shake his head would cause the clamps to pull at his nipples. Dry hand taking hold of his end of the belt again, Steve trails his wet hand down Bucky’s body, pushing and tracing at the fat that bulges between the ropes.

After what feels like a squirming eternity, Steve reaches Bucky’s dick. Solid grip and a fluid motion, Steve sets the pace. _Shit_ — Bucky’s toes curl as he tries to buck into Steve’s fist. It’s been — it’s been who knows how long since Bucky’s felt direct simulation to his own cock like this and _God_ does it feel better than anything. From the start, Steve had set a brutal, rough pace, stroking from base to tip. Every jerk of his cock made Bucky squirm and moan, always tugging at the clamps, only making the pleasure more — almost, but never quite getting there, unbearable.

Before too long Bucky’s lost in a pleasure-filled haze. Caught somewhere between Steve’s hand and space, he’s void of all feelings that aren’t being caused by Steve. The full body bondage now a bigger problem than he had first expected it to be; he’s not able to move as freely as he usually likes — legs and arms wanting to move, held down at his sides. Instead, he squirms — like a little rabbit in the talons of an eagle, struggling to break free but can’t, fully immobilised and becoming accepting of near death.

Noises, caught in the back of his throat, make themselves known — soft gasps and uneven _ah_ - _ah_ s filling the room alongside the slick sound of Steve’s hand. He doesn’t know if the approaching feeling of orgasm is coming in too soon or not. A voice in his head is screaming _I’m coming_ , _I’m coming_ , _I’m_ — and, he almost does: like a freight train hitting him straight in the stomach. Though, as quickly as that feeling of orgasm comes, it’s taken away from him.

At the same time, Steve snatches his hand back and _yanks_ at the belt. Cock jumping, spluttering out what he can, Bucky _screams_ : loud and deep from his chest. If he had any sense left in him, he could be concerned about who was able to hear him. But, right now, he doesn’t care if his feral shouts alert anyone.

The cloudy white of subspace behind his eyes starts to fade around the edges with black, and they shoot open. The foggy shapes of his and Steve’s bedroom eventually becomes clear, as does the entire feeling of choking and his hands bound by his sides begin to struggle, automatically wanting to claw at the thing blocking his breathing. Tears begin to form.

Steve’s face comes into view — dark eyes and a shit-eating grin, face slightly blurry from tears in Bucky’s eyes. Steve’s hand holding the belt tugs once, twice, before letting go. Gulping down air like a starving man, Bucky’s breath jumps and skips as he moans, haggard. The escape from the light-headedness of being choked mixes a little funny with his floaty head.

It’s a feeling that not unlike when he depersonalises, he supposes; a high that he just can’t name and he finds himself craving more and more of.

“Wanna keep going or do you wanna tape out?” Steve asks, a teasing tone that still somehow sounding sincere. Forgetting about the chain in his mouth, Bucky nods, gasping in pain as the clamps tug at his nipples. Steve laughs, kind and enamoured — like he can’t believe that forgetful fool was his — and strokes the side of Bucky’s face, “good,” he says, “because I’m nowhere near done yet”.` 

**Author's Note:**

> T̶̶̶̶̶̶̶h̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶'̶A̶̶̶g̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶x̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶T̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶W̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶S̶̶̶̶̶̶̶m̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶'̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶,̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶f̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶y̶̶̶̶̶̶̶,̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶d̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶c̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶d̶̶̶̶̶̶̶.̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶H̶̶̶̶̶̶̶O̶̶̶̶̶̶̶W̶̶̶̶̶̶̶E̶̶̶̶̶̶̶V̶̶̶̶̶̶̶E̶̶̶̶̶̶̶R̶̶̶̶̶̶̶,̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶w̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶w̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶b̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶p̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶c̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶d̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶w̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶h̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶'̶P̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶c̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶x̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶T̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶o̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶W̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶S̶̶̶m̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶'̶ ̶b̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶c̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶I̶̶̶̶̶̶̶’̶̶̶̶̶̶̶m̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶b̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶d̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶w̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶g̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶m̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶,̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶j̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶w̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶h̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶d̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶f̶̶̶̶̶̶̶f̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶r̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶n̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶s̶̶̶̶̶̶̶e̶̶̶̶̶̶̶x̶̶̶̶̶̶̶u̶̶̶̶̶̶̶a̶̶̶̶̶̶̶l̶̶̶̶̶̶̶i̶̶̶̶̶̶̶t̶̶̶̶̶̶̶y̶̶̶̶̶̶̶.̶̶̶̶̶̶̶ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶


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